Vivian had never been pregnant.
No ultrasound.
No miscarriage.
Nothing.
Just bruises she got after drunkenly falling outside a hotel.
“Why help me?” I asked carefully.
“Because your husband paid my supervisor to alter the files,” Mara answered. “Then blamed me when people started asking questions.”
So I waited.
Collected evidence.
Protected witnesses.
And slowly built the case that would destroy them.
Then came the video.
A dashcam outside a hotel parking garage captured Vivian stumbling drunk while speaking on the phone.
“I’ll blame Elena,” she laughed. “Marcus promised me half the company once she’s gone.”
